


The World is a Snake Pit

by venus woman and giant saurian (grayglube)



Series: season of kink 2019 [1]
Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: F/M, PWP, Season of Kink, heisting makes people horny, kink bingo, murder makes people horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 00:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21027194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/venus%20woman%20and%20giant%20saurian
Summary: Because he’s not the only one who’s hungry.





	The World is a Snake Pit

**Author's Note:**

> for now enjoy some pwp, for the kink bingo prompt "objectification", the only thing I managed to complete so far (yikes), I have a few more I started to be fair but we'll see when they get finished

It’s not what she’s expected it to be but her expectations failing to be met is hardly the most pressing concern any of them have.

She’s the hula girl on the dashboard, some scenery or carefully placed piece of charm.

She’s meant to draw _his_ eye and _he_ is anyone who needs to be distracted.

It’s not the worst thing she’s been asked to be, or made into, or forced to become.

It’s okay to not be herself for a little while still and if that’s a lie then it’s still better than the thing she was before.

At least this she allows.

…

Not for the first time she puts on an outfit meant to make her into someone else, something else, some _thing _because women have always been things to them.

Because it’s not an _identity_ but an _alias_, a persona, it’s _human._

“Someone’s hungry,” she says, seeing him in the rearview, face made of scales for just that moment as she wipes away a make-up smear.

“Yeah. I _am_,” Richie asserts.

“Low profile,” she reminds him, and it’s one of his own rules.

“So help me out,” he suggests from somewhere behind her headrest, leaning forward momentarily to speak it almost directly into her ear.

She sucks the inside of her cheek between her teeth and shifts her eyes to the rearview, his eyes a lambent yellow from the shadow of the bench seat.

“Fine.”

And she goes first, low profile.

…

A light goes out above the parked car, it gets darker inside and out, the parking lot drifting like it’s outer space.

And it might as well be she knows.

‘_No one can hear your scream_,” she thinks.

The in-between space of life and doesn’t know they’re fucking dead yet.

…

The scent of cologne is thick on the back of her tongue, not bad, not so strange now, just heady when it’s so close.

All the weight on top of her is smothering, like being pressed under a board piled up with stones, like she’s a witch, like a building’s collapsed, like she’s drowning, like the tongue in her mouth that she can’t breathe around that belongs to someone else, someone ardent, someone not so terrible as to warrant what’s coming.

It’s a man, maybe closer to boy, but close enough.

There’s a name that belongs to him but names don’t really matter, she never gives her real one, and so-and-so pants not-her-name against the side of her neck in the backseat of his new-ish car, straining against the inside of his pants between the open angle of her own, her purloined adidas skimming the back of his calves.

And it’s like the urban legend with the scratching at the car door, not a hook but a hand and then the impossibly fast, rough pull on the short scrub of hair to expose the long line of a neck that’s not her own, blemished only by the print of her lip gloss where something else puts its monster mouth.

A second-hand kiss in the dark.

Years of playing a wind instrument in childhood have helped build Richard Gecko’s lung capacity. He barely needs to come up for air when he feeds and his eyes like colored marbles, hypnotic predator with night vision, are able to see her, even in dark.

Blood drips down between her clavicles, into her bra and armpit, gentle rolling drops of heat as his pelvis pushes another into hers.

She reaches up a hand to touch the unfortunate meal’s face, not a good guy, not the worst bad guy ever, not exactly gentle enough to refuse a semi-inebriated girl but careful enough to ask if she’s cool.

That he’s got split knuckles and a gun is hardly something she’s new to.

Still, he works for the next score and they need an in, need a face and Richie needs to eat.

…

There’s not much they need to talk about, so they don’t.

It’s dark in the parking lot at night with final heartbeats between them, him feeding, her wanting, it aches for the both of them, she thinks, trying to reconcile.

…

He has his moods, like they all do, his are only side effects, by products, an aftertaste.

…

His hands are huge, heavy, scars from knives slipping line his palms, ones from fights round over his knuckles, they’re hotter when he’s well fed and the rough calluses catch when they run along softer fabrics than his suits.

…

_“There’s some sharing that happens.”_

…

_He’s_ hard, not Richie but the corpse still between her legs.

“Get off me,” she bites out, squirming like she can manage her way out from under the weight of what feels like guilt and the world.

…

An automatic ad cuts off the space between two songs, before a black, well-polished shoe comes down on top of the phone it plays from on the floorboard.

It’s not the first time she’s helped him feed, just the first time he’s eaten someone who doesn’t want to kill her or hurt her and what does it say when he can control the killer in him but not this?

Is it baser than slaughter, wanting to fuck? She’s not sure.

She’s not sure but when he’s rolls the body off of her, out from in between them and onto the floorboard over the broken phone, his hips slot against hers and he’s hard too.

…

“What’s the opposite of indigestion?” he asks, ignoring what’s between them, his dick hard behind pants pressed up against where she’s made of nothing but heat.

“Satiation?”

“Hm,” he hums, looking back at her face.

“What is it?” she asks, thinking he’s heard something out in the dark lot around them.

“He’s ambidextrous.”

“Handy skill,” she deadpans as well as his brother would.

…

She’s something to figure out.

…

She a lure.

…

She’s bait.

…

She’s getting to be okay with that.

…

“Get off of me,” she says again.

His hand doesn’t move fast or catch her unaware, as if she wouldn’t notice, but it folds down her sternum to unbutton her pants and shove fingers beneath her underwear to open her up.

And more than anything, it’s rude, she thinks, that he hasn’t asked first.

She fumbles for a hold on his jacket, wants to ask him what he thinks he’s doing but chokes on the start of a sentence, his knees opening hers wide, her hips tilting up like her chin does.

“Hot and bothered,” he says, like an accusation.

His fingers are thick, circling the edges of her world suddenly, stretching her around them as they find a place inside, slick enough to slide home.

“Should I have waited?” he asks as his fingers pull free from her underwear, sticky on the edge of her pulse, holding her by her scruff, thumb under her ear to keep her head still, his face over hers, skull cradled in his palm like he wants to crack it open like an egg.

“Huh, Katie-Cakes?”

He’s made a misstep and notices to late, still tries to recover.

She clenches on nothing.

But he’s ambidextrous now and the next time she takes a breath her insides clutch at quick, blunt fingers he takes from inside his mouth first.

“I, uh-” she starts, can’t finish as his fingers sweep, press into her to drag out slickness and paint her with it, nudging up on her clit incidentally, pressing in to feel her tighten a ring around his knuckles, never deep enough to make her desperate as the smell of blood permeates all the sticky air around them.

“Guess not, huh?” he asks, waiting for her to answer.

He gets nothing from her as she stifles the outcry between her lips.

“Not ready to give it up just yet?”

An impression comes through, some residual, deciduous thing, a milk tooth, a vestigial tail.

He likes her, wants to put more than his fingers inside of her, wants to put teeth in her, wants to put his blood on her and his cum.

His fingers move and she strains up, held there by his body and an arm dropped around her waist. Her soles scuff the opposite side of the car’s backseat to press up, too much warmth between her legs to think straight as he twists his wrist to rub around her insides, stretch her open with a slow in and out and his expression when she looks is deliberate, focused, never not looking for a safe to crack.

“He was thinking about this,” he says against the skin of her neck, something he can’t help but admit.

He runs the pad of his middle finger along the cleft of her like he’s testing her edge, a blade, a reason even as he parts the seam of her and nudges her clit again.

She’s so hot her spine rolls up to bend like its melting.

He chuckles roughly. “You’d come from dry humping if I didn’t eat them first.”

She huffs out a breath, squirms between the seat under her back and the harder obstacle of his body.

“You’re quiet,” he says eventually, evenly, assessing her face as he rubs her into oblivion. “Sorry, you never get to finish. Rude of me. My fault.”

He’s ceaseless, pushes then pushes again until she flattens her feet to the seat and stares back at him.

“I don’t think I could get another in,” he tells. “I could try if you want me to.”

She drops her chin and swallows around a sound to speak up. “I want you to shut up,” she grits out, throat pulled tight, eyes nearly shut, hips thrusting up, meeting his hand even as she reaches to work down her jeans.

He doesn’t help, just waits until she’s panting and her bare ass rubs against the almost new upholstery, thighs trapped by denim but cunt exposed to the coolness of his body, warming up now that he’s been fed.

She puts her hand on his just to feel it, the warmth of herself on his fingers, how impossibly big his rough hand seems under her own.

It’s like someone pulling on both ends of an already impossible knot, tighter and tighter, his fingers making sloppy sounds between her legs.

It’s too good, too good to ever admit.

He’s going to make her come like this.

He’s going to know it when he does.

“It’s okay, I was a virgin for a long time too.”

She sighs, not what she needed to hear and pulls her knees up between them, pressed under them as a man twice her age and a bodycount fingers her into oblivion.

…

The second time is something else but close enough to feel familiar.

…

“You can’t be in here.”

Not in someone else’s office, not next to a safe, for sure, obliviously, like it’s ever stopped them before.

It just hasn’t been like this before.

But the look the man who’s caught them pretending to be caught receives must say more than can be expressed with what Richie tells him next.

“Too bad.”

And again she’s the prop, with him pressed tightly up against her back, right up against another wall.

His hard-on pressed up against her lower spine, his hand presses down between the loose skirt of the dress his brother’s picked for her to wear.

All for show.

There’s not enough time for anything more.

All pretend.

Except his erection.

…

It’s strange to her, even after all the rest, to find that she’s in the same situation she always is; commodity, decoy, expendable.

…

She pushed him off, better not to be distracted while on the job. He does his bit, she does hers, they go back to business as usual.

Her: lookout.

Him: safecracker.

Seth: running point.

…

The third time is not a necessity, is not required, the third time feels like something dirty or a ploy, no bloodlust to blame it on, nothing to excuse it.

…

She’s can’t breathe around his tongue but it doesn’t feel like she’s drowning.

…

She wants to kiss him.

…

She is necessary.

…

She is not okay with this.

…

He’s against her anyway, in the dark.

…

“You have no idea what this is like,” she tells him, grasping his tightly by the arms, forcing him over onto his back, shoving her hips into his.

…

Because he’s not the only one who’s hungry.

…

He’s not the only one who’s gone unacknowledged.

…

“Fuck me,” she says, out loud, the same way she’s said, ‘let’s go,’ or ‘take me home,’ or ‘I want you,’ to what he’s considered dinner before.

“I think I’m worth dinner at least,” he answers, not completely unaffected by the way she’s asking for it, unswayed because she’s not begging for it.

“Bite me,” she says, harsher than she has anything else.

How she might say, ‘love me,’ what she will never say, what she won’t even hope for now.

“You wish,” he answers, going limp against the bed, glasses askew, hair mushed, collar wrinkled.

“Bet you were a virgin until right after Santanico put her foot in your mouth.”

He laughs, full belly shaking laughter that bounces her on his lap.

“No. But she’d fuck you dry,” he tells her, smirking filth back at her, relaxed despite the obvious parts of him that are not.

…

Nevermind, she thinks.

“Fuck you,” she says.

He opens his mouth to find a pillow shoved there before he can say something again.

_You wish._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still editing my book before I start querying with it, haven't been around much in fandom but eventually that with correct itself


End file.
